


wished for infinity

by crucios



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crucios/pseuds/crucios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick’s been known to forget things of importance, but <i>this</i> he thinks he would probably remember. He’s relatively sure Harry’s never uttered a word about even considering buying a new place, let alone <i>actually buying one</i>. In Nick’s bloody neighbourhood. Which—well, actually it kind of <i>hurts</i>, but Nick would probably never admit that out loud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wished for infinity

**Author's Note:**

> this happened because i dreamt about harry and nick making out and also talking about buying a new lamp. how it turned into this is an absolute mystery. apparently this pairing wants me to write all the schmoopy fic ever. i am actually horrified at myself.
> 
> thank you so very much to my betas _teaboytoaliens_ and _send_reinforcements_ who are so very wonderful and made me feel a lot better about this fic. and to _plasticskies_ for reading over it for me before posting, she's great.

-

Nick’s making toast when he finds out. He doesn’t even hear it from Harry; he’s waiting for his toast to pop for a second time – because it never toasts properly the first – and scrolling through Twitter when he comes across the article: _Harry Styles Buys 3 Million Luxury Party Pad In Primrose Hill_.

Nick’s been known to forget things of importance, but _this_ he thinks he would probably remember. He’s relatively sure Harry’s never uttered a word about even considering buying a new place, let alone _actually buying one_. In Nick’s bloody neighbourhood. Which—well, actually it kind of _hurts_ , but Nick would probably never admit that out loud.

Or at least not until he calls Aimee not two minutes later and says, “Harry’s got a new house.”

There’s a rustling and a curse or two and then Aimee asks in a marginally confused tone, “Harry did what?”

Nick doesn’t know whether she didn’t hear or, very much like him, just doesn’t bloody understand. He thinks it was probably the former though, because he can hear traffic and ridiculously angry-sounding car horns in the background.

“Harry bought a new place and didn’t even _tell me_ ,” Nick says miserably—no, not miserably, he’s not miserable over a fucking eighteen-year-old _twat of a pop star_. 

He’s just disappointed. Or something.

Aimee tuts out a noise of disbelief and says, “I thought he was living with you?”

“So did I,” Nick says, because he did. He even had a sodding _crisis_ over the whole thing and got spectacularly sloshed on cheap cocktails and possibly tequila. Possibly, because he remembers _thinking_ about wanting tequila, but not whether he actually got it. He hopes he did. He deserved fucking tequila.

“I had a crisis about it and everything and now he’s moving out. I think he might even be breaking up with me,” Nick whines, because he can be ridiculous and over-dramatic and Aimee won’t judge him for it. Well, she’ll probably judge him a little bit. But mostly she’ll tut sympathetically and suggest they go out on the lash – which is exactly why he’s calling her.

“I’m glad we’re finally at the stage where you can admit there’s something to break up, because it was on horribly tragic ground for a while,” Aimee says. “Pix and I even talked about staging a fucking intervention.”

Nick sighs; he truly, truly despises his friends. “Thanks for the concern.”

“Have you talked to him?” Aimee asks, and then before he can answer loudly exclaims, “Oh, shit! Nearly got ended by a fucking bus, watch where you’re going you fucking _dick_.”

Nick rolls his eyes. “Get battered by a bus later, I need you right now.” 

“Sorry,” she says. “So _have_ you talked to him?”

Nick frowns, twisting a biscuit barrel around with his free hand so it’s facing the right way – something should be right at least. “I don’t want to talk to him, I want to skip to the part where I get absolutely smashed and then maybe go home and print off HQ pictures of his stupid face so I can scribble it out. In _Sharpie_.”

Aimee barks out a laugh. “Sometimes I forget which one of you is the teenager,” she quips. “Remind me again?”

“You’re my least helpful friend, we’re officially done,” Nick says, huffing. He tries to think of another one of his friends he can call who won’t take the piss and realises that he doesn’t actually have any. Shit. He’s going to have to call his fucking _mother_. 

“Honey, Harry is so fucking completely gone for you. Trust me. So I’m disinclined to believe there’s not a perfectly good explanation for all this,” Aimee says in her horribly soothing and uncharacteristic _I can be nice and helpful, see?_ voice. Nick feels oddly diffident admitting that her words calm him, so he doesn’t. But he does let out a composed breath. 

“You need to talk to him,” Aimee says, “and if that goes to shit, then we’ll get trashed and you can scribble out his face with Sharpie all fucking night, yeah?”

“Fine. I’ll text you later,” Nick huffs. His friends are useless.

He hits the _end call_ button violently and then realises he’s burnt his fucking toast and spends two minutes scraping it over the sink, because he’s not going to let Harry fucking Styles force him to make more bloody toast.

~~~

Nick hums and haws over calling Harry for approximately two hours. He spends the first bleak hour listening to his playlist he creatively named _The Universe Hates You, Nick Grimshaw_ , which has an awful lot of The Cure on it. Nick’s definitely not opposed to The Cure right now, not at all; he thinks they encompass his woe quite wonderfully actually, though that’s something else he’s quite certain he’ll never admit out loud. Because he is absolutely not miserable.

Absolutely not.

The other hour Nick spends sleeping – because hosting the breakfast show is bloody doing him in to be quite honest – and it ends up being Harry who wakes him up. Nick squeezes his eyes shut tighter and blindly reaches for his phone. His message tone is One Direction’s _One Thing_ , mostly for gleeful _singing along and annoying Harry purposes_. Right now, though, it’s just infuriating.

He blinks his eyes open at the brightness of the screen and reads the flashing message: _Be over for takeaway and GBBO catch-up in about an hour!! Okay? :) xx_

Oh god, is Harry going to break up with him while they’re watching the fucking _Great British Bake Off_? Because Nick thinks that’s a level of cruelty he just can’t quite handle. Even Mary Berry and her fucking florals won't be able to console him. Nick’s already seen the latest episode anyway; he should just delete it from his Sky box and feign confusion. It’s not _his_ fault Harry missed it.

He pushes down the part of him acting like a stubborn five-year-old and stares at the text for a moment. He doesn’t think it sounds much like a pre-break up text – surely you don’t put a smiley face and _kisses_ on a pre-break up text? – but he also doesn’t have any past pre-break up texts to base that assumption on. He’s never allowed himself to be in a position where he _can_ be broken up with before Harry fucking Styles.

Nick has never quite experienced self-loathing like this. Because he knows—he knows that Harry’s going to get bored with him; Harry’s eighteen and a bloody pop star, and Jesus fucking Christ on a cream cracker, he would be the one person who Nick decided to let himself fall for, wouldn’t he?

Nick sighs resolutely and just texts back: _Bring coffee, running low!! See you soon. :)) Xx_

~~~

“I’m never gonna see you anymore now you’ve got a new fancy party pad, am I?” Nick says, standing back and letting Harry through his flat door. It’s not really what he meant to greet Harry with; he was planning on a casual _hey_ if anything – nothing too suspicious. But apparently his brain-to-mouth circuits are malfunctioning.

God, he’s letting Harry fucking Styles destroy him.

Harry’s fringe is falling over his face and his cheeks are pink-tinged with the crisp autumn chill, and Nick can’t help but cup them in his hands to press in the warmth and kiss him slow and sweet. He lets go after a moment, and Harry smiles bright, shrugging off his – really _thin_ , no wonder he’s fucking cold – jacket and kicking off his shoes.

Harry wrinkles his nose, and it’s stupid and adorable and Nick hates him. “Smells of burning. You haven’t been trying to cook us dinner again, have you?” he teases. 

Nick tries to swallow down the lingering panic – Harry doesn't _seem_ off with him, all bright smiles and shining eyes as ever – and just tuts at Harry and says, “I’ll have you know I’ve been watching _Nigella_ , I can make pasta and sauce now. She’s a genius, that one.”

Harry laughs, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “I was thinking Chinese later.”

“Yeah,” Nick agrees, “that sounds better. Hey, you didn’t answer my question.”

Harry doesn’t meet his eyes, and Nick thinks he must have been hoping he didn’t _have_ to answer it, which doesn't at all help with convincing himself he's just being terribly over-dramatic about the whole thing.

“You heard then?” Harry asks carefully and then gently pushes past Nick and goes through to the kitchen.

“Yeah ‘course, just make yourself at home,” Nick says evenly, following Harry through. “And of course I heard. I don’t know if you know this, Harry Styles of One Direction, but you’re sort of a big deal in the media.”

Harry just shrugs, flicking on the kettle and turning around to stare at Nick questioningly. Nick’s not really sure what he wants him to say though, so all he offers is a conversational: “Three million quid, eh?”

Harry smiles, rolling his eyes and fishing in the cupboard for mugs. “That was a _round number_.” He throws a teabag in one mug and a spoonful of coffee in the other, and—and Nick loves that. Loves that Harry knows which one Nick’s craving at any given time. He stops the thought before letting himself properly consider that it's entirely possible he's going to _lose_ that.

“Oh, uh huh, so like, 2.9 million, then?” Nick jokes, crossing the kitchen to lean against the counter next to Harry. “You young popstars, more money than sense.”

“Shut up,” Harry shoots back, digging him hard in the arm, but Nick can see the corners of his mouth twisting upwards.

“Coulda told me you were shopping for houses in my neighbourhood,” Nick says, and he tries not to sound too affronted. Because he’s not. Except, okay, he really is, because Harry could have bloody mentioned it. Even if he _is_ moving out and making Nick horribly miserable, Nick would have helped him; he would have went along to viewings and pointed out all of the faults and possibly kissed Harry in all of the rooms in all of the houses, because that’s surely the best way to get a decent feel of a place? 

He’s a little angry he was denied the experience, honestly. 

Harry looks genuinely apologetic though, his eyes going sad and wide, and Nick knows he’s going to crumble and let it go, because he is actually _horrifyingly_ in love with Harry fucking Styles. Jesus Christ.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, “sort of just bought it on a whim.”

Nick shrugs, and he does crumble, offering a nonchalant “It’s fine, love,” and hating himself a little bit for it. He leans forward against Harry’s back to rest his hands on his hips and Harry leans back into him a little; Nick allows himself a moment to press a kiss against his neck just to feel him shiver. 

“So I guess you won’t be ‘round here nearly as much then, what with you having your very own Primrose Hill pop star pad around the corner,” Nick says casually (he hopes), his chin hooked over Harry’s shoulder.

Harry sighs, all sorts of mock-indignant, and turns around, resting his back against the counter and staring up at Nick with bemused eyes. Nick’s quite sure he’s probably missing something obvious. “I didn’t move there for the neighbourhood,” Harry says. “I moved there because it’s _your_ neighbourhood, you twat.”

“Oh,” Nick says, and rather embarrassingly feels his chest loosen a little. “Well, didn’t want to assume, did I?”

Harry just breathes out a laugh and then he’s pulling Nick down and mumbling _idiot_ against his lips before kissing them. Nick smiles into it a little and lets himself be kissed. Harry pulls away a few moments later and hands Nick his coffee before picking up his own mug and leading them through to the living room.

Nick wants to ask. He wants to ask _why_ Harry's moving out – if he's done something to prompt it – because until today he had thought it was all going very wonderfully and he doesn't understand what he's _missing_ here. But he doesn't ask, just sinks down next to Harry on the sofa and comfortably presses against his side.

“No spoilers,” Harry says seriously while Nick’s concentrating hard on flicking through his recorded programmes to find _Great British Bake Off_.

“No spoilers,” Nick agrees, grinning. “It’s a good ‘un, though.”

Harry fidgets about for the majority of the first half hour. He doesn’t even laugh at Nick’s very hilarious running commentary or mock any of the contestants, which suggests something is clearly very wrong.

Nick’s starting to properly panic and think that maybe Harry actually _is_ going to break up with him during _Great British Bake Off_ , when Harry says, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Always good,” Nick says wryly, trying to ignore the way his heart is beating like a fucking bongo.

Harry’s staring down unwaveringly at the mug of now-cold tea cupped in his hands, his hair blocking Nick from trying to gauge what’s even happening here from his eyes. “Like, I mean, I bought the house because it’s near you and everything,” Harry says uncertainly. “But I sort of thought you could move some of your stuff in. You know. Um. If you want?”

Nick stares at him in genuine bewilderment and his voice comes out a little high when he says, “Are you—Harry, is this you asking me to _move in with you_?”

Harry still doesn’t meet his eyes. “No. Well, yes. Kind of?” 

Nick opens his mouth – maybe to say something about how they’ve sort of been living together for a while now, _what are you even talking about?_ – but Harry cuts him off after just a syllable, his eyes going comically wide. “You don’t have to,” he says quickly, like he genuinely believes Nick would say _no_. For the love of God. “I mean, I’m not asking you to sell your flat or anything. Just, like, if you’d maybe think about not living in it as much and—and living with me?”

Nick has to try his very best not to laugh. “I _already_ live with you,” he says, and oh. Oh, this is just bloody hilarious. 

Harry’s forehead crinkles adorably. “Uh, you do?”

“Well I suppose you live with me really, since it’s my flat and all,” Nick says quickly, picking up his leftover coffee and gulping some down, needing to occupy his shaking hands somehow; the coffee's cold and horrible and he kind of wishes it were something stronger. Would Harry think it odd if he spontaneously broke out a bottle of vodka?

Harry just furrows his eyebrows in blank confusion at him and Nick lets out a hysterical breath. “When you’re not off being a pop star or whatever, you’re _here_ , Harold. Your clothes are in my bloody wardrobe.” 

“But. But that isn’t really…” Harry trails off, his frown softening into something more akin to realisation. “Oh.”

“You didn’t even bloody know, did you? Oh my _god_ ,” Nick says, flailing his arms a little dangerously, his cold coffee almost flying across the room. “I had a crisis, Harry, a sodding fucking _crisis_.”

Harry frowns again. “Okay, now you’ve lost me.” 

Nick kind of wants to die. “Remember that night, the one where you called and asked if you could come over but I was out getting absolutely sloshed with Pix and Aimee?” he asks, and Harry nods slowly. “It was about you. I was having a _crisis_.”

“Please stop saying crisis,” Harry says desperately.

Hilariously, Harry sort of looks like he’s panicking now – as if _he’s_ the one who needs to die of mortification – his hands holding far too tightly onto his mug.

“Oh my god,” Nick says again, because wow, his eighteen-year-old boyfriend _accidentally moved in_ with him and didn't even notice. 

Harry opens his mouth, and he looks horribly like he's going to apologise, which is awful.

“You know what I did, Harry? I woke up one day and thought, oh, we sort of _co-inhabit_ now, don't we? Just like that," Nick cuts in quickly; he needs to get this out all in one go, he thinks. "Then I bloody panicked because like an idiot I thought you’d probably already figured that out, so I rang Pix, who started throwing words like _love_ around, which—probably didn’t help with the sodding crisis. So they dragged me out and got me fucking trollied and made me deal with it.”

Harry finally looks at him then, and his eyes are so bloody _fond_ that Nick can’t even be mad him for failing to notice that they’ve been living together for the past _three months_. 

Harry fucking Styles is ruining him.

“So, wait—you thought I was moving out?” Harry asks, alarmed.

“I thought you were going to fucking break up with me over takeaway and the bloody _Great British Bake Off_ , you complete wanker,” Nick says. He sort of feels like he might pass out, because this is definitely not how he envisaged the evening would pan out.

“You _idiot_ ,” Harry laughs, but he at least has the decency to stop and look vaguely apologetic when Nick casts him a sour look.

“You’re the idiot, Harry fucking Styles,” Nick quips. Because he _is_ and Nick’s petty.

“Okay,” Harry says eventually, when almost all Nick can hear is his heart pounding in his head.

Nick blinks. “Okay?” he repeats blankly.

Harry just nods and sets his mug down, and Nick must have blinked and missed the split-second where Harry _crawled on top of him_ because quite suddenly he’s pushing Nick back into the sofa and licking into his mouth. Nick lets out a sort of desperate noise and kisses him back for a beat before shaking his head and pushing at Harry’s chest. “No, no. You can’t just say _okay_ and kiss me and that’s that.”

Harry smiles, bright and infuriating. “Can we talk about how Pix thinks you _love_ me, then?”

Nick shakes his head, spluttering a little. “Shut up, that’s not even what I said. It’s not even in _context_ —”

“You _love_ me,” Harry says, grinning smugly and pressing small kisses to Nick’s lips.

“Please shut up,” Nick pleads. He tugs Harry closer and tries to ignore the knot in his stomach. “Or I might have another fucking crisis.”

Harry considers him carefully for a moment. “If I said _I love you too_ would that worsen or lessen the crisis?” he asks eventually, his eyes fucking twinkling. “Because I don’t fancy being left here alone with _Great British Bake Off_ while you go out and drown your crisis in tequila.”

Nick has to close his eyes because he’s quite sure he’s very incapable of looking at Harry right now. He wants to call Aimee and ask her _for the love of God, help me?_ but instead he just says, “I hate you.”

“Nope,” Harry almost bloody sing-songs, “you _love_ me.”

Nick yanks him down and kisses him just to fucking shut him up; he licks Harry’s mouth open slow, his hands fumbling through Harry’s hair until he drops them down to his hips to pull him closer. Harry whimpers quietly and melts into it, his tongue hot and wet against Nick’s; he pulls Nick impossibly closer and kisses back like he’s trying to breathe air into Nick’s fucking lungs.

“You’re fucking terrible for me,” Nick gasps against Harry’s mouth. Harry just grins and sweeps his tongue back over Nick’s lips.

Part of Nick wants to flip them over, push Harry down beneath him and cover his body with his own, but then Harry’s working his hips down in an excruciatingly slow rhythm, and Nick digs his fingers in harder and makes a horribly desperate sound deep in his throat. Harry breaks the kiss then, breathing Nick’s name into his mouth, and it sounds so—so bloody fucking _meaningful_ that all of the air punches right out of Nick’s chest.

“Wait.” Nick squeezes his eyes shut, his voice breaking a bit when Harry thrusts his hips down harder. He takes a breath and then he’s pushing Harry off him and saying, “Get up.”

Harry pouts. “Why?” he whines, still half on top of him.

“Because,” Nick says a little breathlessly, “we are not having sex while Mary bloody Berry is on the telly. I’ll never be able to look her in the eye, should I ever happen to meet her.”

Harry giggles, stupid and fucking adorable, but his eyes are dark and his pupils are blown and then he’s pulling Nick up by his jumper and stumbling back a bit. Nick grabs at his hips and pushes him hard against the unit behind them. Harry flails a little, comically falling back against it until it tips and the lamp that had been sitting on it crashes loudly to the floor.

Harry startles, twisting his fingers tighter in Nick’s jumper to keep himself steady. “Oh, shit, _oops_.”

Nick huff out a laugh, pulling Harry back against him and mumbling against his lips, “Been meaning to get a new lamp anyway,” before kissing him again, slick and messy.

Harry’s fingers find Nick’s hair but he pulls back just a touch. “Was gonna mention it actually, it’s a fucking ugly lamp.”

“It’s not _ugly_ ,” Nick says, offended. Well, okay, maybe it is. But it’s past its prime – it's an _antique_ – the poor thing. 

Harry just shakes his head and giggles until Nick gets his hands under his shirt and pushes his thigh between Harry’s legs. Harry lets out a groan and pushes back, pulling Nick closer and kissing him thoroughly. It makes Nick a little dizzy and not entirely sure how much longer he can stay _vertical_. They haven't even _been_ vertical for very long.

“It is ugly,” Harry breathes. “We should go lamp shopping tomorrow. And furniture shopping.”

“Wow, live fast, Harry. Maybe we could go to the _Garden Centre_ , too,” Nick says, his fingers working on the buttons of Harry’s shirt as he rocks his thigh up against him in a half-steady rhythm.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry says, closing his eyes for a beat, his head lolling back just a bit, and then: “Garden could do with a table, actually,” he mumbles.

Nick breathes out a laugh, trailing his lips down to Harry’s neck and mumbling into the skin there, “This is the least sexy conversation ever.”

“Furniture’s hot, shut up,” Harry says, his voice breaking towards the end when Nick licks over his collarbone and bites down a little. Harry keeps his hand tight in Nick’s hair and pulls him up, and Nick goes easily, kissing back over Harry’s mouth. 

“Need you to fuck me,” Harry breathes hotly against his lips, and _fuck_ , that’s much hotter than bloody furniture, Nick thinks.

“Fuck, yes,” Nick groans, and Harry’s getting a hand between them now, fingertips trailing teasingly down the hardened line of Nick’s cock.

“Bedroom,” Nick grits out and grabs hold of Harry’s shirt, spinning them around and clumsily trying to walk them across the hall. Harry stumbles, almost falling back again, and then he’s dragging them through to the bedroom and giggling into Nick’s mouth and—and for fuck’s sake, Nick is so sickeningly in love with him it’s actually _horrible_.

Harry laughs. “Sickeningly, eh?” he says, and oh. Okay, so Nick may have said that out loud. Shit.

“Shut up,” Nick says, his fingers fumbling at the last couple of buttons on Harry’s shirt – why is he even wearing a shirt? – before sliding it off him and then pulling his own jumper off. Harry leans forward, pressing his hands to Nick’s chest and kissing him once – so softly that Nick thinks it should feel out of place, but it doesn’t at all – and then shimmies out of his jeans and boxers.

He tumbles down into the bed and looks up at Nick with wide, expecting eyes, and Nick stares for a moment. He thinks he maybe always does, because Harry is gorgeous and ridiculous and a fucking pop star who could have the bloody world, but always comes home to _Nick_. 

Harry whines impatiently and Nick curses and sheds his jeans and pants and then Harry’s tugging him down and bruising his fingers into Nick’s shoulders. Nick presses him down, kisses over his chest and his collarbone and his shoulder, and then his mouth, sucking on Harry’s bottom lip. Harry’s breath shallows, and he clutches at Nick’s shoulders and pulls him down so their dicks slide together.

“Please,” Harry breathes, sinking back into the pillows, his eyes slipping shut.

Nick half rolls away and hangs off the side of the bed, blindly rummaging in the cabinet drawer for the lube and a condom. When he rolls back over, Harry’s fingers are curled around his cock; his breath is coming out in little gasps, and Nick almost just wants to watch for a moment. But then Harry lets out a broken sort of sound and grabs at the bottle of lube. He squeezes it onto Nick’s fingers with a breathless “ _Come on_ ,” and Nick loves Harry like this, vulnerable and begging Nick to fuck him, loves seeing the parts of him that the rest of the world never will.

Nick stretches him open slow, sucking on his collarbone and twisting his fingers deeper until Harry’s whispering a string of curses and gasping. He slides in once more, angling it just right so Harry's arching up into it and saying, " _Now_. Nick, now." His voice is _wrecked_ and Nick thinks he could almost come from just that. He pulls out his fingers and leans back, grabbing the condom from the table and ripping it open and rolling it on.

Harry watches him with half-lidded eyes and then flicks open the lube and pours it into his own hand, pulling Nick down and kissing him slow while he slicks him up. Nick arches into his hand and squeezes his eyes shut, then Harry’s guiding him down and pressing against his cock, choking out a _please_.

“I got you, love,” Nick mumbles, voice shaking somewhere in the middle, and then he’s pushing in tight, leaning down to swallow Harry’s breathy little noises and let Harry swallow his own. Harry tangles his fingers in Nick’s hair and clumsily kisses back until Nick moves, breaking off to gasp his name.

Nick rolls his hips slowly until they find a rhythm and then Harry’s pushing back and matching every thrust, and— “We’re going to do this in every— _fuck_ — every fucking room in your fancy new place,” Nick gasps, pushing in harder and again and again.

“God, yes,” Harry whines, licking at Nick’s mouth, and Nick’s so fucking close, knows Harry is too, his back arching up and his hands shaking against Nick’s shoulders.

Nick snakes a hand between them and wraps it around Harry’s cock. “Come on, love,” he breathes, tugging once and twice and then Harry’s shuddering apart and spilling between them. He mumbles Nick’s name again and again and again, and then drags Nick down and kisses him hard. Nick comes then, vision going fuzzy, and then Harry’s mouth is on his, kissing him slowly through it.

He pulls away after long moments of trading slow and slick kisses and then rests his head against Harry’s shoulder, listening to the sound of their heavy breathing before pulling out and rolling over. Harry presses a kiss against his shoulder and then Nick leans off the bed to toss the condom in the vague direction of the bin and throw Harry a t-shirt to clean up with.

“I don’t believe you thought I was breaking up with you,” Harry murmurs, half-arsedly cleaning himself up and tossing the t-shirt aside before curling up into Nick’s side.

Nick shoves at his shoulder. “It’s not my bloody fault you failed to notice that we _already live together_.”

Harry noses at his chest, looking up at him through his eyelashes. “Sorry,” he says softly.

Nick just sighs exaggeratedly and pulls him closer, tangling their legs together. “You should be.”

“You’re still going to move in though, yeah?” Harry asks.

“We already moved in,” Nick mumbles, “so this’ll be relocating, or something. I dunno.”

He feels Harry smile against his shoulder. “So you’re still going to _relocate_ with me?”

“Of course I bloody am,” Nick says, rolling his eyes because Harry is actually ridiculous.

Harry lifts his head up and presses a kiss to the corner of Nick’s mouth. “Good, I’ll pick you up from work tomorrow and we can go furniture shopping.”

Nick just smiles and says, “Sounds good.”

~~~

fin


End file.
